


Lodestone

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sharing a Body, Sid doesn't know how to people, ghost fic, oh spacetoaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-28 07:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Sid glares. Flower doesn't appear affected. Sid wavers.“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”Flower leans forward. “I already think you’re crazy,cher,” he says earnestly, and Sid laughs in spite of himself. It’s so perfectly aFlowerresponse that he can’t help being comforted.“Oh, fuck you. I’m seeing a ghost.”Flower looks thoughtful. “Seeing like… romantically involved?” he asks.“What?Nooh my god, what iswrongwith you?” Sid sputters. “Seeing like he keeps appearing to me!”“Oh, well,” Flower says, leaning back. “That’s okay then.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaboomslang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/gifts).



> Real characters, very made up story. If you know anyone in this, please back on up outta here. No disrespect or ill will intended.
> 
> As of posting, I've got 13K written and I'm about 85% done. Pretty sure I've got the kinks worked out of what was fighting me before, so please enjoy. (I couldn't get traction on the damn thing, so I changed tenses and bam. Off to the races.)
> 
> For Joe. Because I love her.

Sid first notices the stranger outside the rink before optional skate one cold morning in November. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and lean hips, but what Sid registers even past his strong jaw and hound dog brown eyes is the fact that he isn’t wearing a coat. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Sid asks before he can stop himself. 

The man blinks, focusing on him. For a brief moment, he looks surprised. Then he tips his nose and looks scornful. “Russians don’t get cold,” he says loftily. 

“Okay then,” Sid says, and goes inside. 

 

He forgets all about the stranger during practice, concentrating on perfecting a footwork pattern and then lining up for shootouts on Flower, who’s in fine form, shouting insults at anyone who misses the net and raining curses down on the ones who find it. 

Sid takes his turn, laughing as Flower calls him several creative names in French, and rejoins the line. He’s leaning on his stick and listening to Letang talk about Cath when he catches sight of a pair of broad shoulders up in the stands among the onlookers who always straggle in to watch them skate.

“Hey,” Sid says, nudging Letang’s arm. “Do you know that guy?”

Letang squints. “What guy?”

“Behind me,” Sid says, turning away. Pointing would be rude. “Next to the family with the little boy.”

Letang gives him a funny look. “There’s no one else up there.”

“What?” Sid spins back. The little boy waves and Sid returns the wave automatically. There’s no one beside them. 

“You’re coming to dinner tonight, right?” Letang asks. “Cath has a new recipe she wants to try.”

“Yeah,” Sid says absently, still scanning the stands. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

 

He’s late the next morning, traffic slowing him down and making him white-knuckle the wheel. He rushes inside, clutching his coffee protectively, and has to swerve suddenly to avoid running into the stranger as he rounds the corner. 

The man glares at him, and Sid is too late and too Canadian to point out that  _ he’d  _ been in  _ Sid’s  _ way. He just ducks his head, mutters something that sounds apologetic, and keeps going. 

They play the Rangers that night and Sid has enough to worry about that he doesn’t think of the stranger again until the buzzer sounds at the end of the third period and Sid drags himself off the ice, keeping his expression pleasantly neutral for the crowd and reporters. 

He sits through the media scrum and repeats his usual stock answers. “They outplayed us tonight. We know what we need to do to beat them next time. I have every faith in my team.” Over and over until the reporters give up and move on. 

As they do, Sid catches sight of the stranger standing in the midst of the crowd. Is he a reporter, then? But he doesn’t have a phone or camera, and he looks more lost than anything. He lifts his head and looks straight at Sid. 

Sid frowns and opens his mouth to say—something, he isn’t sure what—as Letang sits beside him. 

“Come out with me and Duper.”

Sid’s already shaking his head no when Letang plays his trump card. “For Flower.”

Sid glances at Flower, unstrapping his pads silently—too silently—in his stall. His eyes are bruised, mouth set and grim, and he refuses to look at anyone as he undresses. 

“Fine,” Sid says, forgetting all about the stranger. 

 

It’s the wee small hours of the morning before Sid gets home, after delivering a distinctly wobbly Flower into Vero’s comforting arms. Sid isn’t feeling too steady himself as he unlocks his front door and takes his shoes off in the mud room. 

He removes his pants in the living room, then weaves a careful path into the kitchen and fills a glass with water. He’s standing with a hip braced against the counter, drinking steadily, when movement catches his eye and he spins to see the stranger from earlier, standing in his kitchen. 

Sid hurls the glass at him and bolts for the living room and his phone. 

He’s scrabbling desperately through the pockets, one eye on the doorway, when what happened sinks in and he freezes. 

Moving very carefully, he makes his way back to the kitchen. The man is still standing in the same spot, looking as confused as Sid felt. The glass of water had shattered against the wall behind him. 

_ You missed,  _ Sid’s rational brain tries to point out.  _ Threw it and missed, all there is to it.  _

“I didn’t miss,” he says aloud. 

The stranger looks down at his dry shirt, then back up into Sid’s eyes. “What is happen?” he says, and then he  _ flickers,  _ blinking in and out of sight rapidly, and disappears completely. 

“Oh,  _ fuck,”  _ Sid says out loud, and sits down hard. 

 

It takes him awhile to get his legs back under him. The man stayed gone as Sid cleans up the broken glass on autopilot, brain going around and around, suggesting and discarding options. 

The most obvious is that Sid is losing his mind. He’s finally cracked from the stress of everything he carries on his shoulders, all the associated baggage that comes with being Sidney Crosby. 

Or maybe someone is playing a prank on him. He dismisses the possibility of it being Flower almost immediately. Sid knows what Flower looks like in the middle of a successful prank, and he’s clearly not involved.

He also doesn’t think any of the rookies have the nerve to prank him yet this season. Despite being several months in, they’re all awed and scared of him still. That will wear off, but for now, he thinks he’s safe from any attempted pranks from that quarter.

Which means either he’s going crazy, or he’s haunted. 

 

He goes back in the living room and puts his pants back on. Whatever’s going on, he prefers to be dressed for it. Then he turns in a circle, looking in the corners and shadows of the room and feeling like an idiot.

“Hello?” he says aloud, and feels even more idiotic when there’s no answer. 

He wanders back into the kitchen. It’s dark and silent, no sign of anyone having been there but him.

“Hello?” Sid repeats. “Can I—look, I just want to talk.” 

Silence.

He swears under his breath. 

“I’m drunk,” he says after a minute. “So I’m going to bed. Please don’t… I don’t know, spy on me or anything.”

There’s no answer as he goes upstairs.

 

Sid wakes up early the next morning, drinks some Gatorade for the hangover, and Googles ‘how do I know if I’m being haunted’.

The results aren’t helpful. Unexplained sights, sounds, furniture being moved, temperature changes, unusual physical injuries, and lights flickering are all apparently signs of a haunting, but Sid’s furniture is firmly in place, his thermostat is exactly where it always is, the only injuries he has are the usual bruises from hockey, and he hasn’t seen any lights burning out.

He digs deeper. Animals were known to react oddly to the presence of spirits. Sid doesn’t have any pets. Maybe he can borrow one, he thinks idly as he scrolls.

Unexplained shadows and sounds are another sign. Sid hasn’t seen any extra shadows  _ or _ noises. Nothing except the stranger in his kitchen and at the rink.

He finally snaps the laptop shut and rubs his eyes. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. This is ridiculous. He’s imagined the whole thing—a product of too little sleep and too much alcohol. All he has to do is get a full eight hours’ rest and stay sober, and it won’t happen again.

 

This decided, Sid goes to practice. He doesn’t see the stranger lurking anywhere, which he tells himself is proof that he imagined the whole thing. Flower seems to have recovered most of his spirits, so Sid doesn’t take it easy on him during shootouts, grinning at the colorful language that unleashes.

After practice, he goes to lunch with Duper and Max. 

“Do you guys believe in ghosts?” he asks casually, dragging a fry through ketchup.

Max exchanges a look with Duper. “What kind of ghost?” he asks.

“Are there different kinds?” Sid says, startled.

“Sure.” Max shrugs. “Poltergeists, wraiths, lost souls, vengeful spirits—”

“No, I don’t—” Sid cuts himself off. “Wait,  _ do _ you believe in them?”

Max shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he says. “They might be real. Might not. Why? Have you seen one?”

“No, of course not,” Sid says. He eats another fry, avoiding their eyes. “I was just… curious.”

“Uh-huh,” Duper says. He glances at Max but doesn’t press the issue.

The conversation turns to the rookies, who’s showing potential and who will probably be sent down to Wilkes-Barre soon.

“I’m just sorry we didn’t get Malkin,” Duper says, stealing one of Sid’s fries.

“Who?” Sid asks as he slaps at his hand.

“Evgeni Malkin,” Duper says. “Russian superstar, played for Magnitogorsk in the KHL. There were rumors he was looking at coming over here, but they didn’t go anywhere. Pity, we could have used him.”

Sid steals an onion ring from Max, who yelps in outrage. At least they aren’t talking about ghosts anymore.

 

He goes home and turns on all the lights. 

“Hello?” he says, standing in the den.

No answer.

“You’re an idiot,” Sid tells himself, and heads for the kitchen to make dinner.

He’s slicing tomatoes for the sauce when the man pops into view right in front of him. Sid yelps and nearly cuts his thumb off as he stumbles backward.

The man stares at him. Sid holds the knife out in front of him in one shaking hand. 

“Stay back,” he says.

The man doesn’t seem impressed. “Who are you?” he demands.

“You’re in  _ my _ house,” Sid points out, still holding the knife. “I should be asking you that.” He hesitates. “Um. Who  _ are _ you?”

“Zhenya,” the man says, as if that explains everything. He turns in a circle, inspecting the kitchen. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of soft flannel pants that have seen better days, and he’s barefoot.

“Why are you in my kitchen, Zhenya?” 

Zhenya turns back to face him. “I’m not know.”

Sid eyes him warily. Zhenya doesn’t seem terribly upset by the fact that he keeps appearing and disappearing—more perplexed than anything.

“Uh… are you…” Sid fidgets. “Are you dead?”

Zhenya blinks. He looks down at himself and touches his shirt, smoothes his hands over his stomach. “Why you think I’m dead?” 

“Because—” Sid doesn’t know how to say this, so he opts for blunt. “You keep appearing to me. Like… you show up and then you’re gone again.”

Zhenya makes a face. “I’m not think I’m dead? I’m not  _ know.” _ Now he sounds upset, and Sid puts the knife down and steps around the counter, his need to fix the problem immediately activated.

“Okay, okay, it’s alright, we’ll figure it out, eh? I’m Sid—um, Sidney Crosby.” He holds his breath but Zhenya just tilts his head, a line appearing between his eyebrows.

“Sid,” he says as if tasting the word, no recognition in it.

Well, it’s not like  _ everyone _ knows the name Sidney Crosby. Sid berates himself for being arrogant and tries for an encouraging smile.

“Do you have a last name, Zhenya?”

Zhenya goes blank, face smoothing out as he thinks. Finally, he shakes his head, hard like he’s clearing water from his ears. “I’m—” His face twists up, shoulders hunching toward his ears as he clenches his fists, and he abruptly flickers out of sight.

“God _ dammit,” _ Sid says to the empty kitchen.

He feels silly standing there staring at nothing after a while, so he goes back to chopping tomatoes and adding them to the frying pan.

Zhenya doesn’t reappear, and Sid eats his dinner by himself, watches Sports Center for an hour, and finally goes to bed.

 

He’s twitchy and irritable the next morning, until Letang and Flower hold a conference in hushed French and then Flower drags him out after practice.

“You need to hold a baby,” he informs him. “And think about something other than being Sidney Crosby for a little while.”

“Well,” Sid says. As if he’s ever going to pass up a chance to cuddle Estelle and watch her blow bubbles. 

Vero is delighted to see him. She shoves Estelle into his arms, grabs Flower’s hand, and drags him out the door. Sid looks at Estelle, who seems unimpressed. 

“Just you and me, eh kiddo?”

Estelle burbles.

“So I’m seeing what I think is a ghost,” Sid tells her as he balances her on one hip and sets about loading the dishwasher with the other hand.

Estelle coos. 

“Yep,” Sid agrees, setting a plate on the rack. “He’s Russian. Keeps just… showing up. I’m either going insane or I’m haunted.”

Estelle bounces in his arms and screeches, stretching out her hands toward something. Sid straightens and turns, and isn’t really surprised to see Zhenya standing there.

“Yep, that’s him,” he sighs. “Hello again, Zhenya.”

Estelle flaps her hands at Zhenya, who cocks his head.

“She can see?”

“Looks like,” Sid says dryly, adjusting her weight.

“Is your baby?”

“What? No! No, I’m babysitting. She’s Flower’s.”

Zhenya smiles at Estelle, who giggles and bounces. Zhenya drifts closer and says something in Russian, holding out a finger. Estelle reaches for it and misses, her pudgy hand going  _ through _ Zhenya’s, but doesn’t seem fazed at all. Zhenya laughs quietly and says something else, sounding doting and fond.

Sid just watches the way Zhenya’s eyes light up, the way his dimples flash when he smiles, as he and the baby hold an unintelligible conversation.

“You like babies?” Sid asks after a few minutes.

“Babies are best,” Zhenya says, glancing up. 

“Well then, you can entertain her while I clean up,” Sid says, and puts Estelle on the floor. He gets back to work, watching them out of the corner of his eye. Zhenya stretches himself out belly-down on the kitchen tile beside Estelle and croons to her as she babbles. 

_ This is weird, _ Sid tells himself, scrubbing a bowl.  _ Why aren’t you more freaked out? There’s an actual fucking  _ ghost _ playing with your best friend’s daughter and you’re just… letting him? _ He glances over his shoulder. Zhenya has rolled onto his back and Estelle is patting at his head, giggling when she can’t make contact while Zhenya makes funny faces at her.

Sid shakes his head and goes back to the dishes. Whatever he is, Zhenya isn’t dangerous. Sid doesn’t know how he knows that, but there’s no doubt in his mind.

After Sid’s done in the kitchen, he takes Estelle out for a walk and Zhenya follows. They don’t say much, but the silence is comfortable, easy. Sid doesn’t go far—even in this neighborhood, there’s a chance of being recognized and stopped, which he doesn’t want to risk with Estelle along. Still, he enjoys the sunlight and fresh air on his face, and Estelle clearly does too, from the way she chirps and babbles as they walk.

Zhenya trails behind as Sid gets Estelle ready for her nap and settled in her crib.

“You good with her,” he says when Sid tiptoes out of the nursery.

“Babies I can handle,” Sid says, shrugging. He heads for the living room and flops onto the sofa, groping for the remote. “You like House Hunters?”

“I’m not know what that is,” Zhenya says, so Sid turns the tv on and sets about educating him.

Zhenya disappears halfway through the third episode. Sid is opening his mouth to call him when the door opens and Vero and Flower stumble through, giggling and shushing each other.

“Living room,” Sid calls.

They pop into view and Sid snickers. Vero’s face is pink and Flower’s neck is littered with love-bites, his hair standing on end. 

“I’m very happy for you both and now I’m leaving, goodbye.”

Vero flings her arms around him and kisses him on both cheeks. Sid hugs her back and grins at Flower before letting himself out the door. 

 

He doesn’t see Zhenya again until he gets home and is making himself dinner. Zhenya flickers into sight by the refrigerator, and Sid just barely manages to keep from jumping. 

“That never stops being weird,” he mutters. “Um. Hi. Where did you go?”

“Not go anywhere,” Zhenya says. He slouches against the refrigerator, still wearing the white shirt and soft pants. “Is like blink. With you at friends’. Now here.”

Sid shifts his weight. “Have you been… anywhere else, then? Or have you—” He chews on his lip, trying to figure out how to word it. “Have I been there, um, every time?”

Zhenya nods. He looks tired, almost despondent. “I’m see you at rink. In locker room. Here. Friends. Once, I think, at store.” He glances up. “You’re not see me then. I’m see you a lot when you’re not see me, actually. I’m not know why you start. But always, always you there.”

“Okay.” Part of Sid can’t believe he’s having a rational conversation with an actual  _ ghost _ , but the rest of him is focused on the problem at hand. “So maybe you’re, like, tied to me, somehow? Oh my god, are you haunting  _ me?” _

Zhenya gives him a dirty look. “I’m not even know who  _ are _ you.”

“Well, but maybe that doesn’t matter,” Sid argues. “Maybe you’re—I don’t know. I don’t know about any of this. It’s not like I know anything about ghosts.”

“Am not ghost,” Zhenya mutters, crossing his arms and slumping even more, somehow. “Am just me.”

“Well, you’re something,” Sid says. “Are you, like… solid? I mean, I can sort of see through you sometimes, but—” He squirms. What’s the proper etiquette on asking someone if they’re corporeal?

Zhenya looks thoughtful. He straightens, reaches out one long arm without moving his feet and feels the hem of Sid’s shirt as Sid holds his breath. Zhenya’s fingers pass through it, misty and insubstantial, and he frowns. He tries again, then again, until he gives a grunt of triumph and Sid suppresses a shiver as his shirt  _ moves _ briefly.

“Okay, so if you, I don’t know—focus, sort of, you can touch stuff?”

“Maybe,” Zhenya says. “Is hard. Takes a lot.” He looks a little faded around the edges, like a photograph worn thin from age.

Sid takes a step nearer. “Can I… touch you?”

Zhenya gives him a deeply dubious look but finally nods.

Sid debates on  _ where _ to touch him, and eventually settles on his shoulder, putting out one careful hand. His outstretched fingers slide through open air without resistance. Is it warmer in the space Zhenya occupied? Maybe that’s just his imagination.

“Can you, uh… feel that?”

Zhenya lifts one bony shoulder. “A bit… tickle? Right word?”

Sid suppresses a slightly hysterical laugh. “I have no idea if that’s the right word. I have  _ no idea.” _ He looks up, struck by a thought. “Do you see a light? Do you think you can go toward it?”

Zhenya rolls his eyes. “Is no light.”

“Are you sure? Nothing like… glowing?”

Zhenya gives a loud sigh of disgust and disappears.

“Well fine,” Sid says to the air. “Just trying to  _ help!” _

 

He comes back while Sid is curled on the couch watching Sports Center. The Avs are playing the Blackhawks and winning when Zhenya materializes on the cushion beside him. Sid manages to keep his reaction to a slight flinch.

“Welcome back.”

Zhenya seems slightly more solid than before, less like he’s made of mist and more like an actual person sitting beside Sid on the couch—albeit one that doesn’t even dent the cushion with his weight.

“How does that work, anyway?” Sid asks idly, indicating Zhenya’s seat. “Like, you can’t touch anything without concentrating, but you can sit down?”

Zhenya looks down at himself, at the couch, frowns, and promptly falls  _ through _ it onto the floor.

Sid gapes. Zhenya doesn’t look much better, his head and shoulders protruding from the cushion as he stares up at Sid in shock.

Sid can’t help it—he giggles.

Zhenya looks outraged. “Is not funny!”

Sid laughs harder, knowing he’s edging into goose honk territory but unable to stop. “Your  _ face,” _ he sputters, and goes off into another fit of giggles.

Zhenya flickers out of sight but reappears before Sid can take a breath, this time sitting  _ on _ the couch again, still scowling.

Sid hiccups and forces himself to sobriety. “Sorry. Uh. So I guess it’s like muscle memory?”

“Muscle memory?”

“Yeah—” Sid waves a hand. “Like… when you train your body to do something so well that it can do it without input from your brain? Your muscles sort of… hold the memory, and they perform without you. Like me, I could skate in my sleep. It doesn’t take any brainpower.”

Zhenya brightens. “Hockey.”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. “Been skating since I was tiny, so, ya know… muscle memory.”

Zhenya nods, looking thoughtful. “I like hockey,” he announces.

“Me too,” Sid says, smiling at him.

Zhenya’s lips curve and he ducks his head, looking almost shy. 

“Can you skate?” Sid asks.

“I think—yes?” Zhenya says. He shrugs. “I’m not—”

“Know. Yeah,” Sid says. “You don’t remember anything else?”

Zhenya flickers and Sid puts out a hand.

“Sorry, sorry, I won’t push. I just… feel like it’s important. Like if we can figure out who you are, then maybe we could figure out why you keep—astral projecting into my living room, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

Zhenya doesn’t say anything, looking mulish.

“How about I tell you some stuff about me?” Sid offers. “Maybe that’ll… jog something loose?”

Zhenya shrugs. He has a face made for stubbornness, set angles and lush mouth that folds into a flat line as his jaw juts forward.  _ It shouldn’t make him more attractive, _ Sid thinks idly, and sits bolt upright in horror as he processes the thought.

_ I am  _ not _ finding a  _ ghost _ attractive, _ he tells himself fiercely.

“Okay, Sid?” 

“I—yeah. So.” Sid shakes his head. “Um, I play hockey, which you know. For the Pittsburgh Penguins.”

“Pittsburgh? Is where we are?”

“Yeah.This is my second year with them. I think we have a shot at the Cup soon. We’re still putting the team together, figuring out what works, you know? But we’ve got a good core.”

Zhenya nods. “What else?”

“About the Pens?”

“No,” Zhenya says. His brown eyes are intent. “About you.”

Sid hunches his shoulders. “There’s not much else to tell. I’m from Canada—Cole Harbour. Hockey is… everything. There’s nothing else.”

“Not true,” Zhenya says, but he doesn’t press. “You live here. Alone?”

“Um, yeah.” Sid gathers his thoughts, looking around the living room. Despite his best efforts, it still looks weirdly unlived-in, no personal effects except the historical novel he’s working his way through on the end table by the recliner, and only the prints from the professional designer hanging on the walls. “I know it’s not… great. But I couldn’t keep living with Mario.”

“Is nice,” Zhenya says. He doesn’t sound like he believes it, and Sid doesn’t blame him.

“I’m not really good at anything besides hockey,” Sid says. It sounds pitiful and he flinches, but Zhenya just looks at him, listening patiently. “I have a lot of media stuff I have to do. Photoshoots, interviews, things for the press.”

Zhenya grimaces. “No fun.”

“Not really, but it’s part of the job. I knew what I was signing up for.” Sid shrugs. “Anyway, that’s pretty much it. I’m almost always busy. Hour or two in the evenings are mine, that’s about it. Hey, can you hear me when I call you, when you’re not here?”

Zhenya frowns. “Not sure.”

“Can you disappear and reappear deliberately?” Sid asks. “Or is it just random, like when you get upset?”

Zhenya’s frown deepens. “Think… is accident. I’m not  _ try _ ever.”

“Maybe you should,” Sid suggests. “Like. It might be good if I can call you or something?”

“Why?”

“Well I don’t know,” Sid snaps. “I’m just throwing out ideas here.”

Zhenya sighs deeply, clearly put upon, and vanishes.

“Oh.” Sid waits a minute, but he doesn’t reappear. “Um. Zhenya?”

Nothing.

Sid clears his throat. “Zhenya,” he says again, and this time he focuses,  _ feeling _ for him with his mind even as he feels faintly ridiculous. “Zhenya, come back.”

Can he feel something, a disturbance in the air, or is that his imagination again?

At any rate, Zhenya pops into view, on the couch beside him. Sid realizes at the same time that he could  _ feel _ him, a whisper-soft brush against his mind like someone looking over his shoulder.

“I heard,” Zhenya says. 

Sid suppresses a shiver. “This is so fucking weird,” he mutters. “Where did you go?”

Zhenya lifts a shoulder. “I’m not know. But I heard. Is good, yes?”

“Yeah,” Sid says, smiling at him. “Progress. Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t see a light?”

Zhenya’s glare is impressive. 

“Just checking, jeez.” Sid fights a yawn. “I’m beat. I gotta sleep.” Zhenya looks almost disappointed. Sid hesitates before getting up. “You’re not gonna watch me sleep or something, are you?”

Zhenya levels a look of pure disgust at him. “I’m not creep, Sid.” And he disappears.

Sid sighs and goes to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Flower drops onto the bench beside Sid the next day. “Why are you asking Max and Duper about ghosts?”

Sid freezes in the middle of taking off his gear.

Flower cocks his head, suspicion growing in his dark eyes. “Sidney, what are you up to?”

“Nothing!” Sid protests, yanking his pads off. “I was just _curious_ , what, I’m not allowed hobbies now?”

Flower narrows his eyes. “You don’t do hobbies, _cher_. So what’s going on?”

Sid glances up as Zhenya appears on the other side of the room. No one seems to notice he’s there. Zhenya meets his eyes and smiles. Sid smiles back.

“Sid!” Flower says sharply, and Sid jerks. He peels his sweaty UnderArmour off and tosses it in Flower’s face, laughing at the outraged sputter that gets him.

“Nothing’s going on,” he says, and escapes into the showers.

 

He has a photoshoot later that day, which means being fussed over by the hair and makeup girl, who at least is sweet, if a little tongue-tied by her proximity to him. Then he poses—awkwardly—for several hours while the photographer clicks his tongue and makes dissatisfied noises and positions Sid’s arm a millimeter to the left and admonishes him not to look so stiff.

Zhenya doesn’t show up, and Sid is eventually released to go home.

He goes straight to his computer and the Google search he still has open from before. He flicks through the tabs he hasn’t read yet. SEVEN CREEPY SIGNS YOUR HOUSE IS HAUNTED. WAYS YOU MIGHT BE ATTRACTING DEMONS. HOW TO BANISH GHOSTS. Sid snorts and closes the tab, then, after some thought, reopens it to the last page.

It seems to deal mostly with negative energies and spirits, ghosts that don’t know they’re dead but are tied to a certain place. That doesn’t really describe Zhenya, though, who keeps popping up all over town, in most of the places Sid is.

He clears his throat. “Uh… Zhenya?”

No answer.

Sid focuses, feeling faintly ridiculous. “Zhenya. Can you hear me?”

Zhenya materializes in stages this time, almost transparent at first and then solidifying slowly. His presence in Sid’s mind feels fainter this time, like a half-forgotten whisper or snatch of song. Sid frowns.

“Are you… okay?”

Zhenya doesn’t look all that sure. “Think so. Is hard to… be here?” He flickers briefly and then reformed again. “Can hear—” He cocks his head, expression going distant.

“What?” Sid asks, intrigued. “What do you hear?”

Zhenya grimaces. “Nothing. Imagine, maybe.” He refocuses on Sid. “What you want, Sid? Why you call?”

“Um—I was just trying to figure out what you… are, I guess.” Sid shifts his weight on the couch cushion. “I was doing some research. Are you… angry, at all?”

Zhenya looks baffled. “Why I’m be angry?”

“I don’t know,” Sid says. “I just—apparently strong emotion can sometimes tie a ghost to a place or… thing?” He shrugs. “Anyway, they say that you might need to be… laid to rest, or—” He trails off.

“Don’t need rest, Sid.”

“No, it’s a term, it means—forget it.” Sid sighs. “What do you _want,_ Zhenya?”

“Want?”

“You’ve got to be here for a reason. So we have to figure out what the reason is. What do you want?”

“I’m not want anything!” Zhenya snaps. “Except you stop ask me stupid questions, maybe.” His face is thunderous, jaw jutting. “I told you, I’m not _know_ why I’m here, why I’m see you. Just _am._ I think _because_ of you.” There’s an audible _pop_ this time when he vanishes, and Sid is left alone on the couch.

“Because of me?” Sid says aloud, baffled. “What does that mean?”

When he doesn’t get an answer, he sighs and goes back to Googling.

 

He isn’t expecting the knock at the door, and he jumps, nearly dropping the computer. Only his teammates and closest friends have the gate code, but no one had texted him.

He opens the door and promptly closes it again on Flower’s grinning face, Letang right behind him.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Flower says through the door. “Si-id, open up. C’mon.”

“No,” Sid says firmly, and throws the deadbolt. “Go away.”

The bolt flips back over and Flower pushes the door open. “Forgot you gave me a key, eh?” He’s still grinning, and Sid scowls at him and stomps into the kitchen.

“Why are you here?” he asks as he rummages in the fridge for drinks. “Is this an intervention?”

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Letang says, accepting a beer. “Why do you need an intervention?”

“I don’t,” Sid says hastily. “Flower’s up to something, is all.”

Flower sits down at the table and slings his long legs up on the chair opposite. “I want to know why you’ve been weird lately.” He pauses. “Weirder.”

“He _has_ been weirder,” Letang says thoughtfully. “Talking to himself. Smiling at nothing? All—” He waves a hand vaguely. “Twitchy. What’s going on, _ami?”_

“I’m not _twitchy,”_ Sid snaps.

Letang and Flower don’t seem convinced, eyebrows raised in identical expressions of disbelief.

Sid divides his glare between them. Neither appear affected. Sid wavers.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Flower leans forward. “I already think you’re crazy, _cher,”_ he says earnestly, and Sid laughs in spite of himself. It’s so perfectly a _Flower_ response that he can’t help being comforted.

“Oh, fuck you. I’m seeing a ghost.”

Letang glances at Flower, who looks thoughtful.

“Seeing like… romantically involved?” he asks.

“What? _No_ oh my god, what is wrong with you?” Sid sputters. “Seeing like he keeps _appearing_ to me!”

“Oh, well,” Flower says, leaning back. “That’s okay then.”

Sid is rendered momentarily speechless. “How is _that_ okay?” he finally manages, his voice shrill. “It’s only okay if I’m _not_ fucking the _ghost that’s appearing to me?”_

Flower makes a calming gesture. “Nothing but heartache that way, _cher.”_

“Wait, hang on, back up. You’re saying you believe me? That ghosts are real?”

“No reason not to believe you,” Flower says, shrugging elegantly. “You say you see a ghost, you see a ghost. Is he haunting the house, then?”

“I need a minute to process,” Sid says, holding up a hand.

Flower and Letang waits as Sid sits down at the table.

Ghosts are real. He isn’t going crazy. Flower believes him. _Ghosts are real._

“Holy shit,” Sid says, rocking slightly. “Holy _shit.”_

“It takes a lot of people that way at first,” Flower says sympathetically. “Breathe through it.”

Sid puts his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this.”

Flower pats his shoulder. “So… haunting the house?”

“I think he might be haunting me, actually,” Sid says, lifting his head. “He keeps showing up all over town, everywhere I am. And he says he never appears anywhere I’m not.”

Flower hums thoughtfully. “When did this start?”

“A few days ago. I saw him outside the rink. And then inside.”

Letang’s expression clears. “You asks me if I knew who he was.”

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. “But you didn’t see him.” Hope surges and he turns to Flower. “Can _you_ see him?”

“Probably not,” Flower says. “I can’t usually see ghosts. But sometimes I can hear them.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Flower gives him a flat look. “Because goalies aren’t weird enough?”

“Fair,” Sid admits. “So have you always known? How did you find out?”

“Mamá is a witch,” Flower says matter-of-factly. “She taught me some of the old ways, before I got drafted.”

“Do you think you can… help?” Sid asks. “Like, move on, or… or—”

“Banish him?”

Sid flinches. “That sounds so final.”

“Because it is,” Flower says, but his voice is gentle.

“He says he doesn’t think he’s dead,” Sid says. “But he doesn’t know. He can’t remember anything at all. All he has is his name. Zhenya.”

“Russian?”

Sid nods. “His English isn’t great. But he doesn’t know why he’s here or anything. When I pushed, he says he thought it had to do with me but he was upset and disappeared right after.”

“No details of his former life?”

“Just his name.”

“Sid—” Flower hesitates. “He probably _is_ dead. Ghosts don’t always… know.”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “I did think of that. But I don’t know how to tell him, if he is.” He looks at Letang. “Do you know about ghosts too?”

“Not a fucking thing,” Letang says cheerfully, and toasts Sid with his beer bottle.

“Is there a pattern to when he shows up?” Flower asks.

“Not really. He doesn’t seem able to control it much, although he disappears when he gets upset, like if I ask him something he doesn’t like.” Sid shifts his weight. “I can… call him, maybe?”

Flower looks up sharply. “You can call him?” There’s something in his face, a sharp focus that makes Sid swallow hard.

“I mean, I have a couple of times, and he showed up. I don’t know if it’ll work again, but I can try?”

Flower nods, eyes intent.

Sid reaches outward with his mind, feeling for Zhenya’s presence. “Zhenya,” he says quietly. “Zhenya, can you hear me?” There’s no answer, and he closes his eyes. “Zhenya,” he repeats.

He knows when Zhenya appears, without opening his eyes. It’s a warmth in the back of his mind, a faint brush like a silken feather against his thoughts, and Sid smiles, looking up.

Zhenya is standing a few feet away. His eyes are fixed on Sid, and he looks solid again, no longer faint around the edges.

“Hi,” Sid says.

“Hi, Sid,” Zhenya says, and Flower jumps a foot.

“He’s here? He’s here!”

Letang glances around wildly. “Where?”

Zhenya looks alarmed. “What is happen, Sid?”

“These are my teammates,” Sid says. “Kris Letang and Marc-Andre Fleury, we call him Flower. Flower—he knows about ghosts. He can hear you, and maybe he can help.”

Zhenya’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks at Flower, who’s sitting very still with his head cocked to the side. “Can hear me?”

Flower nods.

Zhenya’s eyes narrow, and he disappears.

“What? Come back!” Sid says.

“Is he gone?” Flower demands.

“Zhenya!” Sid says. There’s no answer. Sid shrugs helplessly. “He just—”

“Doesn’t want to be helped, maybe,” Flower muses. He nods as if a theory has been confirmed and stands. “Come, Tanger. Time to go.”

“That’s it?” Sid says.

“For now,” Flower says. “I must speak with Mamá.”

“What if he comes back?”

Flower narrows his eyes. “Do you feel in danger, _cher?”_

Sid shakes his head immediately. “No. God, no. Zhenya wouldn’t hurt me.”

“How do you know?”

That gives Sid pause. “I’m—I don’t know. But I know he won’t hurt me. He feels… safe. Sort of… solid? That’s not the right word.”

“I think you will be fine,” Flower says. He claps his shoulder and drags Letang out the door.

Sid stands alone in his kitchen, unsure what to do. “Zhenya,” he says. “They’re gone. It’s just me. Will you come back?”

He waits, but there’s no answer. Finally, Sid turns to start dinner.

 

Zhenya doesn’t come back for three days. Sid stifles his worry, shoves it deep, and concentrates on winning the next two games. Flower gives them a shutout in the first, but on the second, a freak bounce knocks the puck in under his elbow and puts the Senators up by one.

Thirty seconds until buzzer, Sid gets the puck on his tape and charges up the ice with it on a two-on-one. He dodges the first defenseman and spins past the second, closing in on the net.

The hit comes from behind, at an angle Sid has no way of seeing. He’s thrown forward viciously, into the boards and ricocheting off them.

He’s vaguely aware of the crowd screaming, of skate blades close to his head, but he can’t roll to safety, can’t make his body obey him. His head rings, vision blurry. There’s a hand on his shoulder, black and white stripes in his periphery.

“I’m okay,” he manages, and tries again to get to his knees. He makes it that time, the referee steadying him as he drags himself upright.

 

No concussion, but a wrenched right shoulder that will keep him out of the next few games, the doctors tell him.

Flower wants to take Sid home, but Sid shakes him off—gently, to keep from hurting his feelings.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. He summons a smile, but Flower doesn’t look less worried.

“You don’t do well alone,” he says.

“Thank you,” Sid says dryly. He adjusts the sling with his good hand and pats Flower’s arm. “I really will be okay. Go home.”

“Have you seen….” Flower glances around the room and makes a _you know_ gesture.

“You’d make a terrible spy,” Sid informs him. “No. He hasn’t been back since you and Tanger came over. Have you talked to your mother?”

Flower nods. “She is looking into it. Says she’ll call me back.”

“Does she think I should be worried?”

 _“Non,_ Sid. She says she thinks you’re safe.”

“Okay,” Sid says. “So I guess I’ll just… wait.”

Flower pats his good shoulder. “Tell me when he comes back, yes?”

“If he does. Sure. Now go—Vero’s waiting for you.”

 

He fumbles with the keys one-handed until he’s able to get the door unlocked and pushed open. His house is dark and cold, and Sid stifles a sigh as he takes off his shoes and shuffles into the kitchen.

Zhenya is standing behind him when Sid turns away from the refrigerator, Gatorade in hand.

Sid yelped and stumbles backward. “Don’t _do_ that!”

Zhenya doesn’t seem to hear him. “Sid, you hurt?”

“Oh….” Sid gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “I got knocked into the boards. Wrenched my shoulder. No big deal.”

Zhenya furrows his brow. “How long you out?”

“They’ll hopefully clear me in a week,” Sid says. He looks at the cap of the Gatorade and frowns. “Shit.” It takes some doing, but he finally manages to hold the bottle still with his right hand and twist the cap off with his left.

Zhenya watches him drink, worry carving lines around his eyes. “Don’t like you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Sid says wearily. He’s too tired to watch TV. He heads for the stairs, expecting Zhenya to let him go, but instead he follows him up to his bedroom, hovering inside the door as Sid tries to figure out how to get undressed. “Why did you leave, when Flower was here?” Sid asks him as he unbuttons his shirt one-handed.

Zhenya doesn’t answer immediately. When Sid glances back, thinking he’s vanished, Zhenya is still where he’d stopped, shoulders hunched and what looks very much like guilt on his face.

“I’m not mean to—” Zhenya’s mouth twists. “Your friend. You say he help. You mean he make me…” He gestures vaguely. “Go.”

Sid turns to face him, dragging his shirt off his good side and working it carefully out from under the sling. “Cross over?” he suggests. “Into the—”

“Not say it,” Zhenya warns, scowling thunderously.

Sid huffs tired laughter. “Fine. I don’t know if he could or not, honestly. But you… don’t want to go?”

Zhenya hesitates, then shakes his head.

“Why not?” Sid asks, genuinely curious. He unzips his pants and lets them pool around his feet, leaving him in his undershirt and boxers. He’s too exhausted to do anything else, so he just crawls into bed, waiting for Zhenya’s answer.

It’s a long time coming.

Sid gets himself situated in the bed, finding a position he can lie in that doesn’t hurt his shoulder, and Zhenya finally sighs and drifts closer, perching on the end of the bed by Sid’s feet.

“Can’t leave,” he says. “Not yet.”

“This can’t be anything like a real life,” Sid points out, wriggling down into the pillow-top.

“Think I have to do something,” Zhenya says.

“Really?” Sid lifts his head. “What?”

“I’m not know yet,” Zhenya admits. “Something with you, I think.”

“Huh.” Sid considers that. “Well, maybe we can figure that out. At least I have a few days to myself now.” He yawns, jaw popping.

“Yes. Sleep, Sid.” Zhenya’s voice is soft.

“S’okay if you watch me,” Sid mumbles, and falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up twisted in the sheets, Zhenya nowhere in sight. Sid rolls onto his back. His shoulder doesn’t hurt as long as he doesn’t move it, so he lies still and thinks.

Zhenya has to do something before he can cross over, move on, whatever the term is. Something that has to do with Sid. All Sid has to do is figure out  _ what, _ and Zhenya can find peace. Easy as that.

He tries to ignore the twist of his heart at the thought of Zhenya leaving.  _ You don’t even know him, _ he tells himself, rolling upright and padding to the bathroom.

Zhenya is looking at the pictures on Sid’s wall when he comes back out. He glances over his shoulder at Sid and then back at the wall.

“You’re win lots of trophies,” he says.

“I guess,” Sid says, joining him. “That’s not why I play, though.”

“Why do you play?”

Sid hesitates. “I—that’s just all I ever wanted to do. Never had any interest in anything else, you know?”

“It make you happy?” Zhenya asks, eyes serious.

“Yeah,” Sid says. He shrugs. “Everything makes sense on the ice. I know what I have to do and how to make it happen. Hockey is easy. People are… hard.”

“No one special for you,” Zhenya says. It doesn’t sound like a question.

Sid turns away, hiding the flinch. “It’s not—I don’t mind. I have the team, they’re my family. I’m not lonely.”

“But you want someone.” It isn’t—quite—a question. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Sid says, trying to smile. 

“No,” Zhenya says. “But you do.” His eyes are steady and sympathetic. 

Sid heads for the stairs without answering. 

Zhenya follows him down into the kitchen. “How’s shoulder?”

“Stiff,” Sid says, pulling eggs from the fridge. “We’re about to see if I can make an omelette one-handed.” He flashes a smile at Zhenya, who returns it, showing dimples.

He has a few mishaps trying to get the eggs cracked, ending up with egg yolk all over his hand on the disastrous first attempt, which gets a genuine laugh out of Zhenya. Sid is helplessly charmed by his giggle, and he winds up dropping the second egg.

“You mess, Sid,” Zhenya says, laughing harder.

“Shut up,” Sid mutters, but he doesn’t try to hide his own smile.

 

The omelette is burned around the edges, but still edible. Sid sits on the couch, legs crossed beneath him, and flicks through channels on the television as Zhenya sits beside him, watching the screen intently.

Sid settles on The Food Network, a rerun of the Great British Bake-off, and digs into his food with a contented hum.

“I’m miss food,” Zhenya says abruptly.

Sid swallows his mouthful, suddenly guilty. “Sorry, should I—” He nods at the remote, but Zhenya shakes his head.

“Mama would make pierogies,” he says. He sounds wistful. “And pelmeni. Best pelmeni in—” He pauses, looking startled, as Sid freezes.

“You remembered something!”

“I—” Zhenya looks at Sid, opens and closes his mouth, and vanishes. He’s back almost as quickly.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Are you okay?”

Zhenya lifts a shoulder. “I’m not know. I’m remember pelmeni, but not Mama’s face. Not where I live.”

“It’s a start, though,” Sid says. He brightens. “Maybe when my shoulder is better, I’ll make pelmeni. It might jog something loose, eh?”

“Would be nice,” Zhenya agrees, eyes soft, and Sid clears his throat and changes the channel.

 

They watch television until lunch time, and Zhenya follows Sid into the kitchen to watch as Sid clumsily puts a sandwich together. 

“Hey,” Sid says as he sits back down on the couch, “you’re not leaving again. I mean—you usually disappear for long stretches, and you’ve been with me since… well, since I got home yesterday, I guess. Did you leave in the night?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “I’m not watch you though.” His eyes crease with amusement. “I’m not creep. But not leave, either.”

“Huh.” Sid considers this as he eats. “You’ve popped in and out but mostly you’ve stayed. I wonder why that is.”

Zhenya just shrugs.

 

Sid is getting antsy by midafternoon. He tries to read for a while, as Zhenya drifted around the room inspecting things and occasionally asking questions, but finally he closes the book and sighs.

“Bored?” Zhenya asks.

“Sorry,” Sid mumbles, although he isn’t sure why he’s apologizing. “Not much to do when I’ve only got one hand.”

“Jerk off?” Zhenya suggests, and Sid drops the book in shock.

“What?” he yelps.

Zhenya’s lips twitch. “Only need one hand for that,” he points out.

Sid’s face is on  _ fire. _ “I’m not  _ doing  _ that,” he sputters. “I’m—I’m not— _ no.” _

“Just suggestion,” Zhenya says easily. “I’m not mind.”

“Oh my god,” Sid says, and makes a break for the kitchen. He splashes water on his flaming face but he can’t as easily stop himself from  _ thinking _ about it. The idea of touching himself while Zhenya watches—maybe even makes suggestions or tells him what to do—Sid can feel himself hardening in his pants and he considers sticking his entire head in the freezer.

The doorbell rang and he spins, startled. Zhenya appears in the entrance to the living room, one eyebrow raised.

“Expecting company?”

“No,” Sid mumbles, but he heads for the door anyway. He swings it open to the sight of nearly his entire team standing on the doorstep, grinning at him. Sid stares at them. “What—”

“You don’t do well alone, remember?” Flower says, pushing past him. He has something in his hands—a pot of chili, Sid’s nose tells him.

“We brought food,” Letang chimes in, somewhat unnecessarily, as he follows Flower inside and the rest of the team troop in after them.

Sid is helpless to stop the influx, so he stands back and lets everyone inside. He looks for Zhenya from across the room, wondering if the crowd would make him leave, but no—Zhenya is still there, looking mildly bewildered. Sid meets his eyes and Zhenya’s expression eases into something like a smile. Sid can’t help smiling back.

Flower elbows him sharply in the ribs and Sid doubles over, wheezing. 

“Why the  _ fuck _ are your elbows so pointy,” he gasps.

“Is he here?” Flower asks. “Or are you smiling at nothing?”

“He’s here,” Sid says, straightening. “Asshole.”

Flower gives him a bright smile. 

Sid opens his mouth to say something but Zhenya is suddenly beside him, his face like thunder.

“Don’t touch him,” he growls.

“What?” Sid says even as Flower lifts his hands.

“Easy,  _ ami,” _ he says. “We’re all friends here.”

“I’m fine, Zhenya,” Sid says, but he can’t help the flush of warmth at the protective fury on Zhenya’s face. “Flower’s my best friend.”

“He hurt you.” It isn’t a question.

“No, I swear,” Sid says. “Flower couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the most harmless person you’ll ever meet. There are kittens fiercer than him.”

Flower tilts a brow at Sid. “Too far, maybe,” he suggests, but Zhenya’s face has eased.

Gonchar slings an arm around Sid’s shoulders. “Sid, what you got to drink around here?”

Zhenya brightens. “He is Russian?”

Sid dithers briefly on how to reply without sounding like a lunatic for talking to empty air, but Gonchar saves him by glancing at Flower.

“Is he here now?”

Flower nods as Sid’s mouth fell open.

“You  _ told _ him?”

“Technically,” Flower hedged, looking shifty, “it wasn’t me who did the telling.”

Sid sputters as Zhenya’s brows drew together. 

“What is happen, Sid?”

Gonchar is grinning. Max drifts over, drawn by Sid’s noises, followed by Duper and Beau. 

“Are we doing this now?” Max inquires.

“Flower, a word,” Sid hisses. He grabs Flower’s arm and frog-marches him out of the kitchen and down the hall to the guest bathroom.

“Whoa, hey,” Flower says, grinning as Sid muscles him inside and slams the door behind them. “I love you,  _ cher, _ but not like that.”

Sid glares at him. “What the _ fuck,” _ he snarls. 

Flower sobers. “They’re your family. They’re  _ our _ family. If something is happening to you, they deserve to know. Maybe they can help.”

“How are they going to  _ help?” _

Flower shrugs. “Maybe they can’t help. But it is not a burden you have to carry alone, in any case.”

“Zhenya’s not a  _ burden _ ,” Sid snaps.

“I know,” Flower says softly. His eyes are gentle and Sid doesn’t understand why that makes him want to put a fist through the wall. “But still. It’s better if they know.”

“You should have asked,” Sid says.

“You’re right,” Flower agrees. “I’m sorry,  _ cher. _ But like I said, it wasn’t me who told them.”

“Tanger?” Sid asks, startled.

“Don’t be angry at him,” Flower says, putting a hand on Sid’s arm. “He was drunk. It slipped out. And then Max latched on and wouldn’t let go until he had the whole story.”

Sid rubs his face. Flower’s eyes are keen when he drops his hand.

“Is it so bad, if they know?”

“They’re going to think I’m crazy,” Sid points out. “Crazier. So yeah, I’m not thrilled with the idea.”

“Sid?” Zhenya materializes beside them, making them both jump. He looks anxious. “Sorry, Sid, not mean to—” He hesitates as if searching for the word.

“You’re not interrupting,” Sid says. “Are you okay?”

“Hard to be—” Zhenya pauses again. “Far from you.”

Flower’s eyes sharpen. “You can’t be away from him?”

Zhenya shakes his head.

“He can’t see you,” Sid says tiredly.

“Sorry.” Zhenya clears his throat. "No. Can't be far."

“What does it feel like?” Flower asks. He’s looking about a foot to the right of where Zhenya is standing, but Sid doesn’t feel like correcting him. He wants to—he wants life to be uncomplicated again. He wants Zhenya to be with him for real instead of a half-imagined phantasm. He wants to play hockey and not deal with the supernatural.

Zhenya’s talking and Sid forces himself to listen. “Like… magnet? Um. Like he’s… pull me to him.”

“Does it hurt?” Flower asks.

Sid’s shoulder aches. He sits down on the toilet seat and waits for Zhenya’s answer.

“If too long away,” Zhenya finally says. 

Sid looks up. “It wasn’t like that at first, was it? You were gone for long periods, then.”

Zhenya nods. “I’m not know why is changed.”

“I have to call Mamá,” Flower says abruptly, and leaves the bathroom.

Alone, Zhenya regards Sid. “Okay?” he asks.

Sid just shrugs his good shoulder. “I don’t know,” he finally says, more honest than he intended.

Zhenya folds to his knees in front of him. He looks more solid than Sid’s ever seen him, warm and  _ living, _ like if Sid reached out, he’d feel soft skin under his fingers. 

“What’s wrong?” Zhenya asks.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Sid admits. His fingers almost itch with the urge to reach out and cup Zhenya’s cheek.  _ I think I’m falling for you. _ He sits on his hands to keep them still. “Everything’s messed up and twisted around and I don’t know who you are or where you’re from—”

“Russia,” Zhenya interjects.

“Thank you,” Sid says dryly, refusing to smile at Zhenya’s pleased expression, but his chest eases a fraction. “Or why you’re haunting me, or—”

“Not haunting you,” Zhenya points out.

“Except for the part where you kind of are,” Sid snaps. He takes a deep breath. “You can’t get too far from me now. Are you going to be in my pocket forever now?”

Zhenya flinches and Sid curses himself.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” he says as Zhenya flickers but doesn’t disappear. “Z, I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

Zhenya is looking at the ground, mouth drooping. “You’re not want me here.”

“Z, look at me.” Sid waits until Zhenya obeys before continuing. “I want you here more than anything. I—” He hesitates. “I want you here for real.”

Zhenya searches his face and Sid holds his gaze steadily, heart beating wildly in his ears. Then Zhenya goes up on his knees and leans forward slowly, eyes still locked on Sid’s, giving him plenty of time to move. 

His lips are soft and warm and they feel  _ real _ on Sid’s. Sid almost closes his eyes but he can’t risk losing a second of what’s happening, of Zhenya actually  _ kissing _ him. Sid’s mouth tingles and he parts his lips on a quiet moan. Zhenya slips his tongue inside, caressing Sid’s, exploring in delicate touches.

Then Flower wrenches the door open.

Zhenya disappears instantly as Sid jerks violently backward, banging his elbow on the wall and nearly falling off the toilet lid.

“Fuck’s  _ sake,” _ he says. “A little warning?”

Flower inspects him, phone in hand. “I talked to Mamá.”

Sid perks up. “And?”

Flower hesitates.

“He’s not here,” Sid says. 

“Mamá says—”

Zhenya pops back into view and Sid jolts. Flower cuts himself off.

“Is he back?”

Sid nods. “You okay, Zhenya?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says. “I’m gone long time?”

“Less than a minute,” Sid says. He smiles at him, and Zhenya smiles back, but there are lines around his eyes, a tired droop to his mouth. 

“Later,” Flower says, when neither of them say anything else. “I’ll, ah—talk to you later, Sid.” 

Letang pops his head over Flower’s shoulder. “Why are we in the bathroom?” he inquires. 

Sid sighs, shooting Zhenya an unhappy look. Zhenya’s mouth quirks but he says nothing as Sid levers himself to his feet.

“We’re in the living room,” Letang says cheerfully, and disappears back down the hall.

“I’ll bring you a plate of food,” Flower says as Sid steps out of the bathroom. “I know what you like.”

Nothing for it but to trudge down the hall and into the living room, where half a dozen large hockey players are sprawled across various of Sid’s furniture. A cheer goes up at the sight of him and Sid glares impartially around the room. 

“Would telling you to leave work?” he asks no one in particular.

“Nope,” Max says happily, and pats the chair beside him. “We saved your favorite seat for you. Come tell us about your pet ghost.”

Sid bristles at that and beside him, Zhenya goes very still.

“Not my pet,” Sid snaps. “Also, not mine.”

Max holds up his hands. There’s no malice in his face, only open curiosity mixed with the usual friendly cheer, and finally Sid sighs and crosses the living room to sit beside him.

Flower appears and hands Sid a bowl of chili. Zhenya sits on the floor beside Sid, which makes him smile into his chili. As if ghosts’ legs got tired. The smile slides off his face as he remembers what just happened. He kissed Zhenya. Zhenya kissed  _ him. _ Sid kissed a  _ ghost. _

“Okay, Sid?” Zhenya asks quietly.

Sid lifts his head. The team is talking to each other, no one paying Sid much mind at the moment as they get settled in with food.

“Yeah,” Sid says, matching his tone. 

“Sorry I kissed you,” Zhenya murmurs, fidgeting with his shirt hem.

“Don’t be,” Sid says immediately. Zhenya looks up, worry on his mobile features, and Sid puts the spoon back in the bowl. “I… liked it.”

Zhenya ducks his head but Sid catches the smile spreading across his face.

“So, Sid!” Max says, and Sid braces his shoulders to face the firing squad.


	4. Chapter 4

It isn’t easy. Despite the protestations of support, none of the team seems inclined to immediately believe him. It helps when Flower throws his weight behind what Sid is saying, but still there are deeply skeptical looks from nearly everyone.

Beau, however, believes him immediately. “If you say you see a ghost, then of course you see a ghost,” he says, and dodges the punch Gonchar throws at him.

“Kiss-ass,” he says.

“Am not,” Beau protests. He rubs his arm and gives Sid a grin. “What’s he look like, Sid?”

“Tall,” Sid says. “Um. Brown eyes, brown hair. About my age, I guess? Russian.”

“Is he cute?”

Sid rolls his eyes. 

“Am handsome,” Zhenya corrects, making Sid and Flower snicker.

“He says he’s handsome,” Flower tells Beau, whose eyes go wide.

“You both heard him. See, Gonch? They couldn’t have faked that.”

Gonchar makes a disgruntled noise. “If he’s Russian, tell me what I just said.” He rattles off a long string of Russian and Zhenya laughs out loud.

“Tell him he not as handsome as he think and his dick definitely not belong in a museum.”

Flower and Sid choke simultaneously and it takes Sid a minute to recover before he can properly relay the message.

“What the  _ fuck,” _ Gonchar says, and that just about sums it up.

It becomes something of a free-for-all after that, with everyone wanting to ask Zhenya questions. It doesn’t take long before Flower sees the look on Sid’s face and takes over answering, allowing Sid to eat his chili in semi-peace. 

That’s good, because Sid feels like he’s crawling out of his skin and he doesn’t know  _ why. _ He twitches every time Beau asks a question, his blue eyes huge with interest, or Gonchar says something in Russian and Zhenya answers. Sid doesn’t know why he’s fidgety, or why it feels like Zhenya’s voice is stroking something low in Sid’s belly every time he speaks.

So he looks at his food and tries not to think about the way he wants to keep Zhenya to himself and not share him with anyone else. He definitely doesn’t think about how soft and warm Zhenya’s mouth was, even though he didn’t taste like anything, and how he’d made Sid’s lips tingle when they touched.

After a while, Sid excuses himself to take dishes to the kitchen. He can’t wash them by hand with his shoulder out of commission, so instead he loads the dishwasher, listening to the hum of voices and occasional laugh from the living room.

Letang pads in a few minutes later. “Okay, Sid?”

Sid summons a smile. “Tired,” he says truthfully. “Shoulder’s sore.”

Letang searches his face. “You’ll let us know if we can help?”

“Always,” Sid says, feeling his smile turn real. “Thank you, Kris. You’re a good friend.”

“I know,” Letang says with a sniff. He sobers. “Sid—”

“It’s okay,” Sid says quietly. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

“I feel like shit,” Letang admits, mouth turned down.

Sid pats his arm. “Good.” He grins as Zhenya pops into the kitchen. 

“Sid?” His face is strained.

“What is it?” Sid asks, alarmed.

“You’re leave,” Zhenya says. He crosses his arms over his stomach. “I’m not—I can’t—”

“Sid, I need to talk to you,” Flower says from the doorway. “Alone.”

“I can’t leave Zhenya,” Sid tells him. Zhenya looks between them, saying nothing. “Can you tell us both?”

Flower looks deeply unhappy at this, mouth pinching, but finally he nods sharply. “Just the two of you, though.”

 

They go upstairs to Sid’s bedroom and Sid sits down on the bed, pulling a pillow into his lap so he can rest his arm without pain. Zhenya leans against Sid’s armoire, eyes dark and unreadable.

“So talk,” Sid says without preamble.

“Mamá says it sounds like a soulbond,” Flower says. “But she’s never heard of a soulbond happening between a human and—” He hesitates. “A… ghost.”

“What exactly is a soulbond?” Sid asks, dread churning his stomach. He doesn’t dare look at Zhenya, who’s saying nothing.

“What it sounds like,” Flower says. “You’re bonded. You won’t be able to get far from each other, not without pain, until it settles.”

“How did it  _ happen?” _ Sid asks. He still can’t look at Zhenya.

Flower hesitates. “Mamá isn’t really sure. She’s doing research now.”

“What does it do? I mean… what’s the point?”

“It gives you strength, speed,” Flower says. “And you can sense each other. Especially if you’re close. The closer you are, the stronger the bond. Mamá thinks that’s why Zhenya can’t leave now, or not for long—the bond is strengthening the longer you stay near each other. It’s literally tying you together.”

“Can we break it?” Sid says. Zhenya flickers out of the corner of his eye but Sid keeps his gaze on Flower. 

“Not without great danger to both of you,” Flower says unhappily.

“Is no danger for me,” Zhenya snaps. His eyes are like flint. “Am already dead.” He flicks out of sight and Sid swears under his breath.

“Fuck. Flower, give us a minute?”

Flower nods and slips out the door.

Sid waits until he hears Flower’s retreating footsteps and then closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Zhenya. Come back.”

Nothing.

Sid casts a little further with his mind, putting more urgency into the call. “Zhenya. I need you.  _ Please.” _

Zhenya sighs and Sid opens his eyes. Zhenya is slouched against the wall by Sid’s trophies, his expression studied and distant, but Sid can read the hurt in his bearing.

He slides off the bed and crosses the room to stand in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You’re want to break bond,” Zhenya says, folding his arms. “What other way you mean?”

“The one where you get to have a life not tied to me?” Sid whispers.

Shock flashes across Zhenya’s face and he straightens. “Why you’re think I want that?” he demands.

“Because,” Sid says, “I  _ know _ me. You—you don’t, not really. You haven’t seen me before a game. All the rituals I go through, the stupid superstitions and precautions. I’m obsessive and neurotic and I drive people up the fucking  _ wall, _ okay?”

Zhenya takes a quick step forward, so they’re toe-to-toe. “Not me,” he says, eyes intent.

“I will,” Sid says, and he hates himself but he takes a step back. “Give it time. I will.” He looks up, pleading for Zhenya to understand. “You deserve better, Z. Better than me.”

“Is none better than you,” Zhenya says harshly. “You’re think I don’t know you? I know you, Sid. I watch you. Long time before you’re see me, I see you. I see you with fans. Signing. Hugging—I’m know you hate touch.”

“Only from strangers,” Sid interrupts. It’s important that Zhenya understands this.

“From strangers,” Zhenya agrees. His eyes have softened. “You give time. Energy. Self. You take pictures with fans, give tickets, give  _ you. _ Over and over, till you’re empty. And then do it again next day. Smiling.”

Sid wants to hide from whatever the look is on Zhenya’s face. “I’m not—you make me sound like some kind of saint.”

“No,” Zhenya says quietly. “Not saint. Just good man. Man I want to be with.”

Sid can’t catch his breath. “You don’t mean that.”

Zhenya’s brow darkens. “Not tell me what I mean, Sid. Know what I said.”

“Sorry,” Sid manages. He hugs his ribs, careful of his shoulder. “I just—”

“Want to kiss you,” Zhenya murmurs, and his eyes have gone liquid hot and hungry as he looks at Sid’s mouth. “Want to kiss you all day, all night. Want to  _ feel _ you.”

“Oh  _ god,” _ Sid gasps, and stumbles backward. He’s hardening in his pants and Zhenya licks his lips, watching him. Sid puts a hand on the wall and bends at the waist, struggling to catch his breath. “You can’t just  _ say _ things like that,” he says when he straightens.

Zhenya snorts. “That’s nothing,” he says. “Want me to tell you what I do to your pretty cock? Where I—”

Sid wrenches the door open.  _ “Flower!”  _ His voice is slightly hysterical but he doesn’t care because behind him, Zhenya is laughing, dark and full of promise. Sid spins back to face him. “I want you,” he says in a rush. He can hear Flower coming up the stairs. “So don’t take anything I say as me wanting to get rid of you, okay? I’m just trying to figure this out. To  _ help _ you.”

Zhenya sobers. “Okay, Sid,” he says quietly. “Wish I could kiss you again.”

Sid gives him a soft, private smile. He hopes it conveys just how much he wishes that too. “That took too much energy, huh?”

Flower appears in the doorway as Zhenya nods. “Air cleared?” he inquires. 

“Soulbond,” Sid says. “Explain it.”

“We’re not completely certain that’s what this is,” Flower hedges. “But everything you’ve told me fits. The way you can call him and he hears you? The way you know instinctively you can trust him. Even the way you settle when you’re with him.”

“I… settle?”

“You’re calmer,” Flower says. “Like you’re grounded.”

Sid glances at Zhenya, who shrugs.

“But it means we can’t get far from each other?” Sid asks.

“It’s a process,” Flower explains. “The bond takes some time to settle. The days you’ve spent together, the way Zhenya’s stayed longer and longer until now he can’t get far from you—that’s the bond. You won’t be able to break it now even if you want to.”

Sid can’t help the shiver. “And it’s… forever? We can’t ever—”

“No, once it settles, you’ll be able to be parted,” Flower assures him. “It shouldn’t be much longer. But until then, the closer you are to each other, the better. The…” He hesitates.

“What?” Sid demands.

“The safer,” Flower says reluctantly. “Parting you now would be—” He chews his lip. “Dangerous.”

“Sorry, Sid,” Zhenya says. He looks  _ miserable _ when Sid glances up, his broad shoulders hunched and head hanging. 

“It’s not your fault,” Sid tells him automatically. “Z, look at me.” He waits until Zhenya obeys before continuing. “It’s not your fault, Zhenya.” He uses his most commanding tone, willing Zhenya to believe him, and it seems to work at least a little—Zhenya’s shoulders ease slightly and he takes a careful breath. 

“One more thing,” Flower says. He fidgets. “It may get worse, before it gets better.”

“Worse how?” Sid demands.

Flower just shrugs, mouth turned down. He’s clearly out of his depth.

Sid grimaces. “I’m not really up for more socializing right now.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Flower promises. “Call me if you need anything, eh?” He pats Sid’s arm, nods at Zhenya, and leaves.

 

Alone in the room, Sid perches on the edge of the bed. Zhenya drifts closer, almost as if unaware he’s moving, until he’s settled beside him, close enough that they’d be touching if Zhenya were solid.

“Better?” Sid asks.

Zhenya nods. Doors slam downstairs, cheerful voices calling back and forth as the team leaves. When they’re gone, the house goes quiet. 

Sid feels… twitchy, like ants are crawling under his skin. He rubs his arms absently as he thinks.

“What do you think he meant by it getting worse?”

Zhenya shrugs. “Find out, I guess.”

Sid stands. “Let’s see.”

Zhenya looks alarmed. “Sid, what—”

Sid marches toward the bathroom, goes inside and shuts the door. The prickling under his skin intensifies almost immediately but he forces himself to be still, to count slowly.  _ One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand— _

Before Sid gets to five, Zhenya appears, almost transparent, face drawn.

“I can’t—”

“Okay,” Sid says, and hurries to him. “I’m sorry, are you hurt?”

“Tired,” Zhenya says. 

Sid holds the door open, wishing he could offer support as Zhenya follows him out of the bathroom. Sid sits down on the bed and then an idea strikes him. He stands again.

“Um, hold still.”

Zhenya eyes him warily as Sid approaches, but obeys. Sid holds his breath and steps closer, until they’re almost toe-to-toe. Then he turns around, his back to Zhenya’s front, and takes another step closer. He can hear Zhenya’s breath as he sucks it in.

“Sid, what—”

“Trust me,” Sid says, and takes one more step. When he looks down, Zhenya’s feet are superimposed over his own, overlapping like a double-exposed photograph. Sid breathes out slowly, lets himself settle, and that’s— “Oh,” he whispers.

_ Oh, _ Zhenya murmurs in his head, and that’s surprise and delight and  _ relief _ in the brush of Zhenya’s mind against his. There’s no more pain, no more prickling of uncomfortably tight skin. Just warmth, delicious warmth and a feeling of being… full, filling him more than the best sex Sid has ever had, from his scalp to his toes, a wash of heat that makes him bite back a moan.

_ Sid, _ Zhenya whispers, a satin-soft caress that’s felt more than heard.

“Let go,” Sid breathes. “Let me take it.”

He feels the moment when Zhenya surrenders control to him, like a slotting into place of two shapes, going from two pieces to one whole. Sid takes a step and Zhenya moves with him in perfect sync, that weird double-vision still overlapping them when Sid looks down, but he’s in control of his body, Zhenya is going where Sid leads.

Sid laughs out loud. “Better, right?”

_ Better, _ Zhenya agrees. Seems he has no need for spoken words when he’s mind-melded with Sid. He can feel the relief washing through Zhenya’s mind, cool and clear as it scours away the last of the pain that had clung like tar. Sid frowns.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he says.

_ It’s not, anymore, _ Zhenya says. 

He’s lost his accent, Sid realizes with a shock, and he misses it with a quickly stifled pang.

“I have an idea.”

He heads for the stairs, still a little cautious, but Zhenya’s surrendered control willingly, and Sid has no difficulty getting them both downstairs, through the kitchen and down another flight of steps, into the basement. He flicks on a switch by the wall and Zhenya’s mind goes bright with shock.

_ Sid. Really?  _

“Well, yeah,” Sid says. He can feel the delight and surprise in Zhenya’s head as he scans the small ice rink Sid had installed in his custom-built basement. “It’s not exactly regulation-sized, but it does the trick when I just need to get on the ice.”

_ Are we going to skate? _

“That’s the idea,” Sid says, grinning, and heads for the shelf where he keeps his skates. Zhenya’s anticipation fizzes inside them and Sid can’t help bouncing on his toes a few times, swinging his arms to loosen his chest. “Have you been at any of my games?” he asks as he drops onto the bench to pull the skates on.

Zhenya hums a confirmation.  _ I saw you play five, six times, maybe.  _

Sid laces the right skate and turns to the left. “I wish I’d known.”

_ So you could toss me a puck? _ Zhenya sounds amused.

“Maybe.” Sid grins and stands. Even being in skates makes him feel better. Steadier, grounded. That feeling spreads and puts down roots when Sid steps onto the ice. The crunch of the ice beneath his blades is like coming home, the cold breeze numbing his nose as he pushes off and skates in slow, easy circles, still swinging his arms to limber up. Then he puts on some speed, careful crossovers on the corners and pushing off on the straightaways.

_ I remember this, _ Zhenya says suddenly.  _ I remember—skating.  _

“Yeah?” Sid says, not slowing down. “Anything else?”

_ Not yet. Keep going. _

“Happily.” Sid throws in some figure eights, backward skating, a few loops and circles. He realizes he’s smiling as he works his way through the patterns but he can’t be bothered to stop.

_ This is where you belong. _ It’s not his thought, it’s Zhenya’s.

“In my basement?” Sid says, grinning, and heads for the rack where his sticks hang.

_ On the ice, fool. _

Sid laughs out loud as he grabs a stick and a few pucks. “Wanna do some drills?”

_ Of course. _

 

He doesn’t call a halt until he’s dripping with sweat, muscles burning pleasantly from being pushed, but finally he straightens and shakes his hair off his forehead.

_ Sid, _ Zhenya says suddenly.  _ Sid, your shoulder. _

“Oh, shit.” How had he forgotten about it? Sid rolls his shoulders carefully, but there’s no pain, no limited motion. His arms move freely and comfortably. “How the hell…”

_ The bond? _ Zhenya asks. He feels wondering, confused but so glad Sid’s not hurting that Sid can’t help his smile.

“I guess,” he says. He takes off his skates, puts them away, and heads back upstairs. In the bedroom, he hesitates. “Ah… I need to shower.”

In his head, Zhenya gets it with an almost audible click, but he says nothing.

Sid chews on his lip. “Shouldn’t you—”

_ Shouldn’t I what? _ Zhenya asks.  _ Maybe I want to shower with you. _

“Oh god,” Sid whispers, and arousal sings through him.

_ You want that too, _ Zhenya whispers, and sends him an image—Sid, braced against the cool tile of his shower with Zhenya behind him, curved around him, bracketing him with his arms and body, hot mouth latched to Sid’s throat.

“Oh  _ god,” _ Sid chokes. He goes from half-hard to aching in a matter of seconds, his head spinning as he staggers for the bathroom. His clothes are shed with no thought to where he drops them, and his hands are shaking as he turns on the water, adjusting the spray until the temperature is where he wants it.

The water feels incredible beating against his skin, molten hot and lighting him up as he steps fully under the showerhead and tips his head back.

_ So beautiful, _ Zhenya murmurs.  _ Sid, can I— _

He’s asking permission to touch, Sid knows. He takes a deep breath and lets go. It’s like sliding into the passenger’s seat of a car, still fully invested in what’s happening but with no control of his own body. He watches Zhenya lift his hand and turn it, inspecting the back and then the palm.

_ Beautiful, _ he repeats, and slides his palms down Sid’s sides.

Sid shivers, and delight paints Zhenya’s thoughts as he reaches farther down, down… and closes a hand around Sid’s cock.

Sid makes an inarticulate noise and Zhenya  _ purrs. _ There’s no other word for the noise he makes as he strokes—looser and slower than Sid is used to, but it’s not going to matter. He can feel the fire already burning in his belly. 

_ I want to do so much to you, _ Zhenya whispers. He sends Sid an image—them on the bed, Sid on his back with legs spread and Zhenya on his knees above him, two fingers buried deep inside him.

Before Sid can do more than moan, Zhenya hits him with another image—Sid in Zhenya’s lap, rocking deep as he clings to Zhenya’s shoulders, head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Z,” Sid pants. Zhenya has one of Sid’s hands braced on the wall, the other working steadily as the hot water fills the room with steam. “Z, I can’t—please—”

_ Got you, _ Zhenya croons.  _ Gonna come for me, baby? _ One last mental picture flashes through Sid’s mind—Zhenya on his knees, Sid’s cock in his mouth, eyes closed—and Sid is gone, tumbling over the edge with a cry as Zhenya works them through it, slowing and gentling his strokes as Sid pants and shakes.

_ Okay, _ Zhenya murmurs, and Sid can almost feel Zhenya’s actual hands on him, petting his sides, wrapping an arm around his waist, their heartbeats thumping in unison.  _ Okay, Sid. I’ve got you. _

“Z,” Sid mumbles. His thoughts are fuzzy, slow to form, and he’s more than willing to let Zhenya be the one to get them out of the shower, dried off, and stumbling into the bedroom. Zhenya guides Sid under the covers, tucks him in, and Sid lets himself sink into the mattress with a moan of happiness.

“Sid,” Zhenya whispers.

Sid opens his eyes, pulled away from the edge of sleep, and realizes he and Zhenya are no longer sharing a body. Zhenya is lying next to him, a few inches away, his brown eyes intent.

“Hey,” Sid slurs, feeling a smile tug at his mouth.

“Hey Sid,” Zhenya says. His voice is low and fond, and Sid wants to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache radiating up his arm. He folds his fingers under, tucking them into a fist. 

“Thank you,” he says instead.

“Sid, I lo—” 

Sid blinks and lifts his head.

He’s alone in the bed.

Zhenya is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Sid sits bolt upright. “Zhenya?”

There's no answer. Sid is alone in the room.

Zhenya's never left in the middle of a sentence before. Something is off. Something is wrong. Sid can feel it down to his toes.

He scrambles out of the bed and finds clothes, pulling them on and nearly tripping over the cuffs in his hurry to get the pants on.

“Zhenya?” he repeats when he's dressed. “Zhenya please, come back. Zhenya!” Sid closes his eyes and feels for Zhenya's presence, but there's nothing there, like a cold spot in the back of his mind, an emptiness where Zhenya used to be. “Fuck,” Sid whispers, rubbing his arms.

“Sid—”

Sid whirls in place. Zhenya is so faded he's transparent, the bed clearly visible through his frame, and the look on his face—Sid's heart stops. It's pure terror shining there. 

“Sid, they’re make me go. They’re make me leave you. Sid, I'm not want to go,  _ please—” _

“Who?” Sid demands, reaching for him. “Zhenya, who's making you leave,  _ who?” _

Zhenya flickers out of sight without answering and Sid's legs give out. He goes to his knees, one hand still outstretched.

_ “Zhenya.” _

 

He waits what feels like hours, unwilling to move. He still can’t feel Zhenya’s presence. There are no answers to his calls. Sid feels alone in a way he hasn’t for some time, and it hurts to move when he finally pulls himself off the floor and fumbles for his phone.

Flower answers on the second ring. “What happened?”

“He’s gone,” Sid manages.

“I’m on my way,” Flower says, and hangs up.

 

Sid’s still in his bedroom when Flower lets himself in and hurries up the stairs. He’s afraid to move, afraid Zhenya will come back and Sid won’t be there, and he says as much to Flower, who shakes his head. 

“If he’s haunting anything,  _ cher,  _ it’s you. He’ll find you. Come downstairs, you need something hot to drink.” He bullies Sid, protesting weakly, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he deposits him in a chair and turns to make tea. 

Sid sits at the table, unable to stop prodding at the empty space in his mind, like poking a bruise. Zhenya’s absence is final and absolute, a void in Sid’s carefully planned orbit. Sid feels off-balance, unable to focus, like a set of dominoes poised to topple.

He accepts the hot mug from Flower gratefully, if only so he has something to do with his hands.

“Tell me what happened,” Flower says, sitting beside him, so slowly, haltingly, Sid does. Flower prompts him with questions throughout, listening intently. Sid hesitates when he gets to the shower, but Flower’s expression remains unchanged—soft, worried, sympathetic, and Sid loves him so much, it chokes him.

He puts the mug down and buries his face in his hands. Flower scoots closer and pulls him into his arms, rubbing his back.

“He’s gone,” Sid manages, clutching Flower’s shirt. “He’s—I can’t  _ feel _ him anymore. He’s  _ gone.” _

“Before,” Flower says, hands steady on Sid’s back, “before when he was gone, when he’d disappear, could you still feel him?”

Sid wipes his eyes and sits up. “It took me a while,” he says. “At first I didn’t know  _ what _ I was feeling. But then—yeah. I could. I could sort of… sense him. And he’d almost always come when I called.”

“He said ‘they’ were making him go,” Flower says, watching Sid intently. “Do you know who he meant?”

Sid shakes his head helplessly. “I asked, but—”

“I’m going to call Mamá,” Flower says gently. “Sit tight,  _ cher.” _ He pulls out his phone and does so, speaking quickly in French. Sid catches the occasional word but doesn’t try to understand the conversation. Flower talks for nearly fifteen minutes, asking Sid questions every few minutes, but finally he hangs up.

“What did she say?” Sid asks. Hope is too much to ask for, but surely Flower’s mother can at least shed some light on what’s happening—but Flower’s shaking his head, mouth drooping.

“I’m sorry,  _ cher. _ She’s never heard of anything like this.”

“There has to be something I can do,” Sid says. It can’t be over. It  _ can’t _ be. Hot liquid splashes his hand and Flower swears, pulling the mug away from him before he breaks it. “He was here, Flower, I’m not going to lose him now, there  _ has _ to be a way to bring him back.  _ There has to be.” _

But Flower won’t meet his eyes, and Sid jerks away, knocking the chair over. Scathing words are on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back with an effort. It’s not Flower’s fault, he knows that, but he also can’t bear to look at him.

He runs to the basement and laces up his skates with shaking hands. He stays on the ice for hours, calling Zhenya over and over as he skates in loops and circles, but Zhenya never answers, and finally, worn to the bone, Sid drags himself back upstairs. Flower left a while ago, which Sid is dimly grateful for. He drinks some water and stumbles up to bed, numb with grief.

 

He’s cleared to play two days later, and it doesn’t take long for the team to notice something’s wrong. Sid flinches the first time someone asks about Zhenya, and Flower yanks the offender—Max—aside and whispers to him fiercely. The memo must circulate, because no one mentions Zhenya’s name again, and everyone has varying degrees of sympathy on their faces when they look at Sid.

Sid wants to put his fist through a wall, but he doesn’t. He puts on his pads and skates, tugs his jersey over his head, goes out and practices with the team. He responds to questions but offers nothing unless prompted, still feeling at the empty space in his head, still calling Zhenya’s name every chance he gets.

He never gets an answer.

His playing is automatic, uninspired, but no one says anything to him about it. Flower comes over every day, dragging him over to see Estelle, eating quietly with him, refusing to leave him on his own for too long. Sid is dimly grateful to him but can’t find the words to thank him.

A month after Zhenya’s disappearance, Sid dreams of him. They’re lying in bed together, Sid’s leg thrown over both of Zhenya’s, arm over his waist. Zhenya is solid and warm and  _ real _ under Sid, chest shaking with his laugh, and Sid presses his nose to Zhenya’s shirt and smiles and smiles.

He wakes up with tears on his face. Rolling over, he grabs a pillow and pulls it to his chest as he lets the sobs come, ripping through him in endless waves. He grieves for his loss until he’s limp and drained, lying in his too-big bed all alone.

Then he pushes himself upright, wipes his face, and takes a deep breath. Zhenya is gone. Sid knows that. He can’t keep torturing himself with the hope that he’ll come back. Sid squares his shoulders and pushes the grief deep, locking it away. He has hockey to play, a team he can’t let down. 

 

Two weeks later, he gets a call from Mario. “Hey Sid, we just signed someone I want you to meet. He’s coming over for dinner tonight. Can you make it?”

 

Sid shows up with a nice bottle of wine for Nathalie and receives a kiss on both cheeks and a warm hug from her. Mario is in the den and Nathalie waves him through, busy with dinner, so Sid heads down the hall and knocks on the open door.

“Sid! Come on in!” Mario jumps up but Sid doesn’t see him because  _ Zhenya  _ is unfolding himself from the armchair on the other side of the room,  _ Zhenya _ crossing the space between them. Zhenya’s strong jaw, his hound dog brown eyes, one big hand outstretched, no recognition on his face. Sid can’t move, a roaring in his ears drowning out all other noise. 

“Zhenya?” he whispers.

Zhenya looks at him, a wrinkle forming on his forehead, and drops his hand, glancing at Mario questioningly. 

Mario clears his throat. “As I was saying, this is Evgeni Malkin. He played for Metallurg. We’re very excited to have him and I think he’s going to do great things for us.”

Sid is unable to look away from Zhenya’s beautiful face, soaking up every detail of his appearance. He looks thinner, and there are dark circles under his eyes. 

Zhenya—Evgeni—holds out a hand again, and this time Sid takes it. The feeling of Zhenya’s hand in his, very solid and undeniably  _ real, _ makes his head spin.

“Would you excuse me?” he manages, and bolts.

 

He makes it to the bathroom and locks the door behind him before sinking to his knees, clutching his head. Zhenya is  _ here, _ Zhenya is  _ alive, _ Zhenya—very clearly doesn’t recognize or remember Sid.

“Oh god,” he whispers, rocking back and forth. “Oh god, oh god, what do I  _ do?” _ He digs his phone out with fumbling fingers and calls Flower.

“What is it?” Flower asks when he picks up, voice sharp with concern.

Everything spills out in a trembling rush as Sid crouches on the floor, rocking back and forth. Flower listens intently, swearing under his breath occasionally.

“And you’re sure he doesn’t remember you. You’re sure it’s  _ him.” _

“Yes,” Sid snaps. “Of course I’m sure it’s him. I’m not hallucinating. I  _ touched _ him.”

“Did anything happen when you touched him?” Flower demands.

“No. I shook his hand. He might have said something, I don’t know, I was too busy  _ freaking out.” _

“Breathe, Sid,” Flower commands. “I’ll call Mamá. You go back out there, be a good guest. Don’t say anything to him that you wouldn’t say to a stranger. I’ll text you if I find out anything.”

So Sid hangs up, shoves the phone back in his pocket, manages to get to his feet. His face is chalky-white when he looks in the mirror and he grimaces and splashes it with water before slowly, reluctantly heading back down the hall.

Mario looks up when he enters. “Feeling okay, Sid?” 

Evgeni is back in his chair, huge hands resting on his knees. He says nothing, eyes sharp on Sid, who forces a smile.

“So sorry about that. So, Evgeni.” He sits down on the couch, careful to keep a few feet of space between them. “You’re from Russia?”

Evgeni nods. “Can call me Geno, if you’re want. Easier to say, no? Da, Magnitogorsk. I’m play with Metallurg, three years SuperLeague.”

Sid tries not to show how much hearing Zhenya’s voice affects him, breathing through his nose and focusing on keeping his hands from shaking. Zhenya is here, alive, sitting a few feet away from him. Even if he never remembers him, Sid tells himself, that’s still a miracle, a blessing. Sid is grateful. He wants to weep but he forces a smile to his face.

They make small talk until Nathalie calls them for dinner. Sid helps her carry dishes to the table and accepts the kiss to his cheek in payment. When he sits, he realizes he’s next to Evgeni, who’s looking at the food with a crease between his brows.

“It’s not pelmeni but it’s still delicious,” Sid says.

Evgeni’s head whips around and his frown deepens. “How you’re know—”

Sid blinks and tries to cover. “We, um. Have a few Russians. Gonch, have you met him yet? He’s Russian. Talks about Russian food a lot.”

Evgeni still looks suspicious but he settles and hands his plate to Nathalie when she asks for it.

Sid tries to pay attention to his food but it might as well be sawdust for as much as he tastes it, contributing to the small talk when Mario gently prods him but otherwise not saying much. He helps Nathalie clean up after, until she laughingly shooes him away, sending him back to the den where Mario and Evgeni have relocated.

The rest of the evening is a blur. Sid clutches his wine glass and tries not to stare at Evgeni’s face, tired and drawn, dark circles under his eyes. Sid wants to smooth away the shadows, make him smile again. He sits very still and says nothing, even as Mario sends him puzzled looks.

Finally, it’s an acceptable hour to leave, and Sid makes a production out of yawning and covering his mouth.

“Geez, sorry, I’m wiped. I should probably—”

“Actually, Sid, there was something I wanted to ask you,” Mario interrupted. “I had intended for Geno to stay here, but the timing didn’t work out, and Nathalie’s in the middle of renovating the guest house. I was hoping you’d be able to put him up in your spare bedroom for a night or two, until it’s ready for him. It would be better than a hotel, you know?”

Sid freezes. Evgeni looks confused, glancing between them, and he opens his mouth, maybe to demur, but Sid plasters on a smile.

“Of course,” he says. “I’d love to have you, Z—Geno.”

He helps Evgeni carry his bags to the car and they say goodbye to Mario and Nathalie. Evgeni has a hard time folding his long limbs into Sid’s car, but he manages it finally. It’s quiet in the dark interior as Sid starts the engine and they roll out of the driveway.

“How, ah, do you like America?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.

“Is nice,” Evgeni says. “Different. Warmer.” Sid glances over as the tip of Evgeni’s tongue peeks from his mouth. “Drivers are slow.”

Sid gasps. “Did you just chirp me?”

Evgeni grins, a dimple flashing under the passing streetlight, and Sid can’t help his laugh.

“Not bad,” he allows. “You’ll fit right in.”

He turns into his driveway and Evgeni leans forward, looking out at Sid’s house as Sid parks.

“Is nice,” he says quietly. He’s frowning, though, and Sid hesitates.

“You okay?”

Evgeni glances at him and summons a smile that seems forced. “Feels…” He pulls a face. It’s his  _ English is the worst _ expression, and Sid’s heart squeezes painfully at the sight.

He clears his throat and steps out, Evgeni following. 

Inside, Sid takes off his shoes and coat and accepts Evgeni’s before ushering him into the kitchen. Evgeni’s frown is deepening but he says nothing as Sid opens the fridge and pulls out a Gatorade.

“Or would you prefer tea?” Sid asks belatedly, and Evgeni perks up at that.

“You have?”

“Sure, I think so.”

He’s relieved to find a box of PG Tips in the back of his pantry and sets to work making tea as Evgeni settles himself at the counter.

“So you played for Metallurg,” Sid says as the water comes to a boil. “What made you come over here?”

“I’m want to play American hockey,” Evgeni says. His hands are clasped in his lap and he looks awkward, perched on Sid’s stool. “Want to play… with you.”

Sid ducks his head, feeling warmth spread through his chest. “Yeah?”

Evgeni nods earnestly. “I’m be here sooner, but—” He grimaces. “Accident.”

“Accident?” Sid says, looking up. “What kind of accident?” 

“Hit head,” Evgeni says, pointing to his temple. “Boarded. Put in—sleep? Long sleep.”

“Coma?” Sid asks. His heart skips a beat. Could it possibly be?

“Da.” Evgeni nods. “I’m in coma long time. Months.”

Sid can’t draw air into his lungs, his head spinning. “Would you, um—excuse me for a minute?” He bolts before Evgeni can do more than nod, pulling out his phone as he hurries down the hall.

“Sid?” Flower sounds worried. “You okay?”

“Ask your mother if it’s possible for two people to soul-bond while one of them is in a coma,” Sid hisses into the phone, and hangs up.

He’s back as the kettle shrills, and whisks it off the heat to pour over the teabag.

“Sorry about that,” he says over his shoulder. “How do you like your tea?”

“You have jam?”

_ “Jam?” _ Sid asks incredulously.

Evgeni dimples. “Is best in tea.”

Sid stares at him. “If you say so.” He puts the cup in front of Evgeni and turns to root in the fridge, coming up with a jar of strawberry preserves and one of blackberry jam.

Evgeni opts for the blackberry and Sid’s phone buzzes as he’s stirring it into the tea. Sid pulls it out to a text from Flower.

_ She says yes, it’s almost unheard of but it could happen!! _

Sid sets the phone down on the counter very, very carefully. 

“Can I ask you question?” Evgeni says abruptly.

“What? Of course.” Sid’s barely listening, trying to figure out what to do.

“How you’re know I’m called Zhenya?” Evgeni asks.

Sid freezes. “Uh.” 

Evgeni looks confused, curious, but not upset. He tilts his head, waiting for an answer.

“You look like someone I used to know,” Sid finally says, knowing it sounds feeble. “His name was Zhenya.”

Evgeni’s eyes narrow. “He was Russian?”

Sid nods.

“Seems big—” Evgeni hesitates.

“Coincidence, yeah,” Sid finishes for him. 

“I’m never here before,” Evgeni says abruptly, and Sid blinks at the non sequitur.

“Okay?”

“Why I know this house?” Evgeni demands.

Sid doesn’t know what to say, and Evgeni’s brow clouds. He hops off the stool and strides down the hall.

“Bathroom,” he says, pointing. Back the other way, Sid scrambling to stay out of his path, he fetches up in the den. “I’m know this is where you watch TV. How I know that, Sid? I’m crazy? How I know you have  _ ice rink _ down—” He points, and that’s panic on his face.

“You’re not going crazy,” Sid blurts, and rushes to him. Evgeni lets Sid lead him to the couch and they sit down facing each other, their knees touching. Sid thinks about how to say everything he wants to say and Evgeni watches him, clearly still upset.

“Your mother makes the best pelmeni you’ve ever tasted,” Sid finally says.

Evgeni frowns but nods. 

“Your name is Zhenya,” Sid whispers, “and about three months ago, you and I ended up with a soulbond.”

Evgeni draws back. “How—”

“I think—” Sid takes an unsteady breath. “You were in the coma. And you… appeared. To me. Like—like a ghost.”

“Am not ghost,” Evgeni points out.

“Not  _ now _ you’re not,” Sid says. He suppresses the hysterical laughter. “You, um, you said that then, too. That you weren’t a ghost, you were just… you.”

“Why I don’t remember, if happen?” Evgeni demands.

Sid shrugs helplessly. “You didn’t remember anything except your name when you first appeared to me. The whole time you were with me—bits and pieces came back to you but for the most part it was blank.”

“What we do?” Evgeni asks. His brown eyes are sharp and intent, and Sid squirms.

“We, uh. I was out with an injury for part of it. I babysat for my friend, you were there.”

“Baby… Scarlet,” Evgeni says, and his eyes go wide as he presses a hand to his mouth.

_ “Yes,” _ Sid says. “Zhenya—you—do you remember? Is it—are you…?”

Evgeni shakes his head, though, shoulders slumping. “Still not remember.” 

“It’s okay,” Sid tells him, putting a hand on his knee. “Maybe it’ll come back to you.” Evgeni looks down at Sid’s hand and back up to his face. Sid tries to smile. “Even if it doesn’t—you’re here now. We can… start over. If you want.”

Evgeni studies his face for a minute and then leans forward and presses their mouths together. His lips are warm. Sid freezes. Evgeni makes a discontented noise and licks at the seam of Sid’s mouth, sweet and insistent, and Sid takes a shaky breath, opening for him without conscious thought. Evgeni tastes like black tea and jam, and it’s gentle and tentative but Sid wants  _ Zhenya, _ he doesn’t want this person who looks like him but  _ isn’t _ him, and he thinks his heart is going to crack apart in his chest.

When Evgeni eases back, there are tears on Sid’s face. 

“Sid,” Zhenya breathes.

Sid looks up sharply. Zhenya smiles at him, thumbing away a tear. 

“Z?” Sid whispers.  _ Oh please, please— _

Zhenya nods. “I’m remember, Sid,” he says, his voice wobbly. He laughs suddenly. “You’re keep telling me go into light. So stupid!”

Sid chokes on laughter that sounds more like a sob and flings his arms around Zhenya’s neck, bowling him backward onto the cushions. “Z,  _ Z,” _ he says, over and over, planting kisses up and down Zhenya’s face. “Oh Z, I thought you were gone—I thought I lost you—” He hiccups and presses his face into Zhenya’s throat, Zhenya rubbing his back soothingly.

“Can’t lose me,” Zhenya whispers. “Right here, Sid. Here with you.”

“You’re so  _ warm,” _ Sid says, lifting his head. “Like a furnace. I can’t believe I finally get to touch you.”

Zhenya waggles his eyebrows, grinning up at him. “Touch me all you want, Sid.”

Sid laughs and bends his head to kiss him. He thinks dimly that he didn’t know a human body could hold so much joy, but then rational thought flees as Zhenya rolls them and pins Sid to the couch, hot and heavy and solid.

“Love you, Sid,” he breathes, and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *collapses* This dang story fought me the entire way through but I AM VICTORIOUS
> 
> [Come talk to me on Tumblr about idiot boys on knife shoes](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com)


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